


What Dreams May Come

by fandomfix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Fluff, Getting Together, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 11:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20007241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfix/pseuds/fandomfix
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't sleep. When he sleeps he dreams of the past, of Heaven. Right now he isn't interested in that. He just wants to tell Crowley he loves him.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> I mean...it's a fic about sleep. How could I not quote _Hamlet_?
> 
> This idea wiggled it's way into my head and wouldn't leave until it was written. Now, it's time to release it into the world. I hope you like it!

Aziraphale can't explain his distaste for sleep. He does, after all, see the benefits. A time for his mind to relax, a time for him to forget the annoyances of the day. Forget the rude intruders into the sanctity of his collection. Forget the loud voices through the open window of his flat. The interruptions of Heaven—at least when they still called.

But he’s never liked sleep.

Crowley loves it. All the benefits Aziraphale knows of about sleep come from Crowley's lips. He can't count the number of times his demon has fallen asleep while with him. His head pillowed on the opposite arm of the couch they shared.

Once, he’d even fallen asleep with his head on Aziraphale’s lap while drunk. He still thought about the soft feel of Crowley’s hair through his fingers sometimes.

It was one of his favorite things, to watch Crowley sleep. His face relaxed, his lips twitching slightly. Aziraphale could dream about the pressing of their lips to his heart’s delight when Crowley slept.

But he’d never warmed up to it himself.

He brushes away any thought of it in fact, as he readies himself for his night out with Crowley. He can’t help wondering if _tonight_ will be the night he finally moves them forward.

If tonight he’ll finally tell him that he wants to see him asleep, and awake, and all areas in-between.

*

_It was the dreams fault._

Angels and demons weren’t supposed to be able to dream. After all, they weren’t meant to _sleep_ by the human definition as it was. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t tried it at least a couple of times.

Mostly to appease Crowley.

But when he slept, he dreamed.

He was younger in this dream. He was younger and somehow more innocent. He would see himself walking through a garden, but not The Garden. This was from Before. Before Adam and Eve, before a sword was given away. Before a snake came to stand by his side and irrevocably stole his everything.

His attention, his friendship, his love.

In the dream, he is walking through a field of flowers, none of which have names yet. He sees creatures smaller than him flying in the sky. He sees others running away from his footsteps as he pads along the ground. The brush of his wings on the grass behind him is soothing.

Glancing down, he realizes he isn’t walking alone.

He hears a voice but he can’t discern the words. He sees feet walking next to him. Sees grayish-white wings trailing along beside his, feathers intermingling in a way that does strange things to his chest, things the Aziraphale in the dream doesn’t recognize.

(When he wakes, he always knows what the feeling was. He marvels at how he would ever feel that way about a creature who wasn’t Crowley.)

But if he tries to look up? If he tries to see who walks with him, who laughs at his jokes, who brings the warmth to his chest, and the smile to his lips? All he sees is a flash of red before the entire scene blurs in his vision and he wakes.

Aziraphale always wakes up with tears in his eyes when this happens.

*

They’ve just returned to his flat after a lovely dinner. Aziraphale feels his heart ready to explode with each passing hour in Crowley’s presence. This isn’t a new development of course. He’s fairly used to how this feeling grows to bursting every time he’s with Crowley.

Ever since Heaven and Hell started leaving them alone, he’s grown used to wanting to tell Crowley how he loves him.

They come to the door of the shop, and he’s ready to go up, to continue the evening. He can see that Crowley wants to as well. But then he pauses. A flash of fear enters his eyes, there and gone as he looks up at the windows.

“You know what, angel? I think I’m gonna head home. I think I’m ready to sleep a bit.”

Aziraphale knows what this is really about. They’ve both moved on from the arguments and separations of the failed Apocalypse. But he knows the memory of the fire still preys on Crowley’s mind from time to time. Sometimes, he sees a terror in Crowley that the demon refuses to admit to him.

He understands the feeling all too well.

After all, it’s the same terror that passed through him every time he thought of losing Crowley. The constant sword of Damocles that hung over his head with the gifting of the holy water.

But in the present, Crowley is turning away. Leaving him when Aziraphale knows neither of them wants the night to end. When Aziraphale knows that he hates watching Crowley walk away every time. Even when he’s the one who’s caused the leaving.

He steps away from the door, walking to get to the Bentley before Crowley can drive off. He sees the surprise and confusion in the demon’s face as he slips into the passenger seat.

“Wh—”

“You’re completely right, dear. Sleep sounds spectacular. But you know I have no place for it in my flat. Let’s go to yours.”

He can feel Crowley’s eyes on him, so he reaches out to rest his hand on his knee. They both freeze at the contact, but he pushes on. He’s grown tired of letting their past get between them. He may not sleep, may not like it, but he is _tired._ Tired of looking at Crowley and not knowing if he would let him kiss him.

Tired of suspecting he would and allowing his fears to hold him back.

“Let’s go home, dearest.”

Crowley gulps, but nods.

“If you like.”

Aziraphale doesn’t move his hand. He begins to worry that he should. As they pull out into traffic, he starts to slip his hand away, when something happens.

Crowley reaches down and places his hand on top of Aziraphale’s. He never takes his eyes off the road, determinedly facing forward as he weaves through traffic. But he slips their fingers together, and the angel can’t stop the small smile that lingers on his lips.

*

They come through the door of Crowley’s penthouse, and though Aziraphale thinks they might have a drink, it seems Crowley really was tired. Or at least, refuses to back down from it now that they’re here.

“Well,” he drawls, pausing uncomfortably in the front room. He looks over the top of his glasses at Aziraphale. The angel’s fingers itch with a familiar desire to throw them away.

“You can stay out here to read if you want. I know you hate this couch though; it wouldn’t be very comfortable for sleeping.”

He doesn’t know how to handle this. They’ve been friends for years, of course. They spent this night like every other, eating and chatting like they always do. But then Aziraphale followed him to the car. Aziraphale reached out his hand and Crowley took it. He isn’t sure what to do.

And Aziraphale may be terrified of moving forward, but something changed in that doorway. When Crowley started to walk away again, Aziraphale knew it was time to stop dawdling. They both want to deepen the relationship, he’s sure of it. But they’re both too frightened of ruining…well, _everything_.

It’s time for Aziraphale to be the braver of the two of them.

“Actually,” he says, stepping forward to stand in front of Crowley. “Would you mind if I read in the bedroom while you sleep? It wouldn’t bother you, would it dearest?”

Crowley’s eyes are huge behind the glasses, which have slipped down his nose and are in danger of falling off.

“You sure?”

Crowley isn’t asking about the bed. Aziraphale catches the glasses before they can fall to the floor.

“Absolutely.”

*

_The dream with his mystery companion isn’t the main reason for his distaste of sleep though_.

It’s the other dream that keeps him from relaxing. That keeps him from resting comfortably while Crowley lies sleeping beside him.

The first dream is lovely, for all that he wakes up in tears every time. He feels happy and in love and he can feel those same emotions rolling off the being next to him, whoever they may be. He can almost feel the brush of fingers even after he’s woken. He can almost smell the flowers in that field. Feel the being next to him brush their hair over his face as they relax together.

No, that first dream isn’t why he avoids sleep.

The second dream though.

It’s horrible. He’s younger in this other dream also. He’s never questioned why this is. He assumes dreams are always about your past. And in this dream, he might be young, but he isn’t as innocent. Something has changed in his very essence. And he’s yelling. Something he never remembers doing before he came to Earth.

But in this dream, he’s yelling. Yelling nonsensically and he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks. His companion is being dragged away from him. He sees one last flash of red and wings brush against his feet as the other is taken away. He gathers his robes around him and screams.

He feels Righteous Fury boil through his skin. Senses his wings stretching out as if to protect him. Some sort of display of power that he doesn’t have. Only here, in the middle of the dream, does he realize he can see the face of the being he’s yelling at.

It’s Gabriel. He doesn’t remember ever yelling at Gabriel, even at his most upset.

And Gabriel stands there stone-faced, waiting as he tires himself. He can’t see his companion anymore. They’re long gone. It’s only the two of them in this field now. Slowly, his voice gives out. His legs no longer support him, and he collapses to the grass. He sees Gabriel’s feet coming toward him.

It’s odd. In all other moments of his dreams, he can’t understand voices. It’s all noise, no matter who’s talking. But for some reason, he can understand Gabriel.

“The Lord doesn’t blame you for this, Aziraphale. He clearly tempted you, and the Lord is merciful to those who have been loyal as you have been. We will forgive your transgression, _this time._ ”

He feels Gabriel’s hand in his hair. He glances up from his spot on the ground. He still feels the tears on his cheeks. He can see the light dimming at the edges of his vision.

“We will forgive, but we can’t have you questioning as he did. There’s only one solution.”

He wrenches Aziraphale’s head back by his hair. The light is growing darker. He meets those blazing purple eyes. A creeping sense of dread—so new his younger self doesn’t recognize it for what it is—grows in his chest.

“Sleep, Aziraphale. Sleep and forget all this.”

The lights go out.

This is where Aziraphale wakes up. Normally he’s screaming.

No, he can’t say he enjoys sleep much.

*

The moonlight through Crowley’s window makes fascinating shadows as it moves across his floor. However, Aziraphale will be honest and admit he didn’t spend much of the night reading or watching the shadows dancing. He spends most of it watching Crowley.

He’s still watching when he blinks his eyes open, momentarily forgetting where he is. Crowley stares at his ceiling, and Aziraphale can tell the moment he remembers who’s lying next to him. Sees it in the way he stiffens completely.

“Hello, dearest.”

Crowley turns to look at him, nervous and unsure. Aziraphale understands the feeling. He stretches out, turning on his side to face Crowley.

“Did you actually sleep?”

His voice is scratchy, human. So different from his usual intonation. Aziraphale reaches out, keeping his hand visible at all times. Crowley could stop him at any moment.

His fingers run through the hair sticking to Crowley’s forehead. Crowley’s eyes flutter, but there’s no interference.

“No. You know I don’t sleep.”

It’s then he makes the jump. Without fanfare, without great declarations or epiphanies. Without even discussing what’s been happening since they stepped back into the Bentley. What’s been happening for six millennia.

Aziraphale reaches forward and kisses him. Gently, his hand resting on Crowley’s cheek.

And when he pulls away, there isn’t confusion or shock on the demon’s face. There is unbridled joy, relief, and—though he’d never admit it—the slightest wetness to his eyes. Aziraphale is quite sure he looks much the same.

“This was all I wanted,” Crowley whispers, as if afraid to be heard. Afraid to be understood. “Then and now. Us, here, together.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale feels the brush of black feathers against his face as he is pulled against Crowley in a tight embrace. He laughs softly, feeling that familiar wellspring of bliss and adoration bubbling up. Crowley moves forward to kiss him, and his last sight before squeezing his eyes closed for a joyful kiss is a flash of red.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~I'm not 100% in love with how this fic came out, but I liked it well enough and I knew if I didn't post it, I'd just end up picking at it until it became something I hated. so I hope you enjoyed it at least somewhat!~~ The general consensus is that i was wrong and this is good, which honestly makes me feel a lot more confident about it, so thanks everyone for that!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://fandomfix8.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/fandomfix8)!


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